


The Name of a Dragon

by Orcusnox (Cat9894)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anderson is a shitty dragon, Are you intrigued yet?, Dragon!John, Harry is Hirador, M/M, Male!John, Molly is Mason, Molly is a dragon too, Sherlock is a Brat, What even are genders?, female!John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-10 15:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3294731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat9894/pseuds/Orcusnox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the humans decided to go to war and tame the dragons. Now, all the upperclass people have dragons.</p><p>Cue Mycroft and Sherlock going and buying a male Jewelled dragon (aka John)</p><p>Oh god I suck at summaries, if I promise it's better will you read it?</p><p>On hiatus while I finish The Boys Wear Red....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

    The doors opened with a rusty squeal, scraping against the stone floor. The sounds echoed, and we were roused from our boredom with the prospect of change. Four pairs of footsteps entered, two stopping by the doors that were just out of sight.

    “Mycroft, you’ve read the same papers as I, and there is no doubt you’ve paid more attention to them since you have little else to do. We both know that dragons are incapable of intelligent thought, let alone  _speaking_. I don’t understand why you think I need one.” The first voice was deep, disgust underlying his words. Once, the tone would have bothered me, but now it was expected. The humans were so disappointed with their conquest.

    What a pity.

    “Little brother, just this once, don’t fight me.” The second voice wasn’t quite as deep, and held the note of a parent being patient with an unruly child.

    I peered at the two humans curiously. It had been a long time since humans had entered these cages, and most of us had grown resigned to our fate to die without seeing the sky for a last time. Ever since the humans had captured and caged us, the sky, our sanctuary and our playground, was gone.

    We’d always said we would fight the humans. When we physically could not fight anymore, we fell into the act of playing dumb. The strategy of keeping our intelligence secret hadn’t exactly been favourable in the days of the war, but even as an egg I’d understood the necessity. That didn’t mean I was prepared to be torn from my mother’s care barely a week after the decision had been made.

    Forced hatchings. The humans weren’t to know that this almost always resulted in death for the hatchlings, and as such many of the unborn dragons were needlessly killed. The loss hadn’t been anticipated, and so the humans had taken the surviving females away to breed. My mother had worked a curious piece of magic – the kind that was the work of an instant, instinctual and uncontrollable – over me before she’d been dragged away. When I hatched, I was a tiny male dragon.

    The two humans – true-brothers, judging by the words and the scent that came from both – walked slowly down the corridor, peering into the cages as they did so. Both men had hard, analytical looks on their faces. I watched, silent, as some – alright, _all_ – of my brothers lunged and snarled at the two. The taller one rolled his eyes, looking more exasperated than anything else.

    “Dull beasts. So predictable,” he muttered. He turned to glare at his true-brother. “Mycroft, this is ridiculous.”

    I drew away from the bars in front of my cage, the chain dragging across the stone floor and making a hideous noise I had long since grown used to. Laying down against the back wall, I scratched idly at my collar, my claws sliding over my scales without leaving a mark. The only dragon scales that could be scratched were those that were newly formed.

    “Where is this one?” I glanced up, startled to find the two men peering into my cage. After one of my kin had killed himself with the electricity the lights used, the cages had been kept dark. The humans believed it an accident, but we all knew better.

    A life in a cage is no life at all.

    Behind the men, in the cage opposite mine, Hirador’s tail lashed out, the deadly spikes barely missing the soft humans. The breath of air alerted the men to their peril, and they turned as one. My true-brother hissed a warning, lashing his tail again.

    “No wonder this one hasn’t been taken,” the one called Mycroft murmured.

    “Shut up, Mycroft.” The taller one glanced between the two cages. “Where is he?”

    Hirador snarled, snapping angrily at the men. I would have sighed if I wasn’t already growling very softly. He was always so protective.

    “Odd,” the human muttered. “Get the guide in here, Mycroft.”

    The familiar scent of the handler made my scales rattle. Furious snarls accompanied the sound of his soft footfalls. When he came into view, Hirador and I let out simultaneous hisses. He didn’t look like much, honestly, but beneath his easy smile and calm demeanour lived a hideous creature that lived off of others’ pain.

    “How can I –” the handler started, but the taller man cut him off with a wave of his hand.

    “What is the relationship between these two?” he asked abruptly.

    The handler gave him a practised smile. “They are from the same clutch,” he said. “Both have the same mother.”

    “Why aren’t they housed in different facilities?” Mycroft asked in a deceptively cool voice. “That is usual procedure, is it not?”

    The handler’s smile faltered, and I wished I could laugh. It was _wonderful_ to see the human in discomfort. “There was… an incident. When we tried to separate them.”

    “Oh?” Mycroft said softly.

    “How many did he kill?” the brother asked bluntly, gesturing to Hirador.

    “None,” the handler admitted reluctantly, fidgeting under the combined stares of the brothers. I was enjoying this immensely.

    “Oh?” Mycroft repeated.

    “This one killed four,” the handler finished, jerking his head at my cage. There was a moment of silence.

    “Fascinating,” the taller human breathed. “Then this is the Ripper Dragon?” The handler nodded. “Oh, this is fantastic. Mycroft, I want him!”

    “What?” The handler gaped.

    “What?” Mycroft looked mildly upset.

    _What?_ I whispered to myself.

    “Oh come now, I won’t repeat myself. Bring me the papers I have to sign so I can leave.”

    The handler glanced helplessly at Mycroft, who merely raised an eyebrow. The man fled. The rest of the dragons mocked him, tails lashing out to trip the man who made our lives horrible. Mycroft turned back to the brother.

    “Are you sure, little brother?”

    He was almost wriggling with excitement. “The Ripper Dragon, Mycroft! What better dragon to study? What better dragon for me?”

    Mycroft heaved a sigh. “Mummy will worry,” he warned. The other man scoffed.

    “Oh, please, Mycroft. Mummy would be as ecstatic as a child with a new toy.”

    “At least we know where you get it from,” Mycroft murmured. I got the feeling he was all out of patience.

    The handler returned with the papers, which were signed and handed back so quickly I was sure the man had missed one. But apparently all was in order, because the handler ordered them to step away from the cage as he pushed in the key.

    “Don’t you need any protection?” Sherlock asked dubiously.

    The handler shook his head. “He won’t attack me. I’m not above using physical means in order to gain their obedience, unlike some soft-hearted fools.” He tugged at my chain. “Out. Now.”

    I rose to my feet and stalked out, eyes immediately adjusting to the brighter light of the hall. Despite my best attempts, I knew my scales were dirty and my claws duller than they should be. I was gratified when the humans stared, scenting their fear. I yawned, showing off my fangs before huffing smoke at the handler.

    “He’s a Jewelled,” Mycroft noted in surprise.

    The handler nodded, wiping soot from his face and glaring at me. “Only male one we’ve seen,” he informed them. “His brother is your average Red, and none of their siblings survived the hatchings. We don’t know if it’s inherited or not.”

    I arched my neck, eyeing the two strange humans before growling lowly. Mycroft stepped away hastily, but the tall one watched me with interest. I puffed out another bit of smoke and went to Hirador’s cage. He thrust his snout out, nuzzling. I growled gently.

    _"_ _Well,"_ I sighed into his mind. _"_ _I suppose this is it."_

    _"_ _I’ll see you again,"_ Hirador muttered back. _"_ _I’ll come find you the next time someone buys me."_

    I bared my teeth in the mimic of a smile. _"_ _Tell me if he hurts you. I’ll make him regret it, I promise."_  I nudged his snout away and turned back to the small gathering of humans.

    “If that’s all,” the tall man – my new owner – snapped sharply. “I have places to be.”

    I lowered my head so that our eyes were level. I observed him critically with one eye. He was dressed in finery, indicating a certain degree of wealth. Like his brother, he held himself with a confidence that I rarely saw in those who walked through our door. But where his brother was calm, my owner radiated focus. I doubted there was much those sharp eyes missed.

    I snorted and raised my head, stretching my limbs out. My wings snapped open, and I wished I could fly again. There had been a brief period of time when I was deemed ‘too young’ to be trained where I had had the freedom to embrace the sky. The collar around my throat kept me attached to the ground, but with the air beneath my wings I hadn’t really minded.

    My owner snatched the chain from the handler’s hands and marched away. I followed, my claws clicking against the hard stone ground. He paused at the door to look back at my handler.

    “Your use of physical abuse on the dragons in your care isn’t a measure of the strength of your heart,” he said abruptly. “You like to cause pain, and causing pain on a dragon – a creature that should be able to defend itself against you without a problem – makes you feel powerful. No doubt you tell fantasised stories in order to attract a partner. Your partner last night didn’t care much for your idea of lovemaking, though. How _is_ your foot?” he asked innocently, and then he swept out the door.

    I followed, peering over my shoulder to see the handler’s face had turned pale, although his cheeks were red with anger. He opened his mouth, but the door closed between us before a word escaped his lips.


	2. Chapter 2

    “Brother dear, please remember that your pet requires attention,” Mycroft said as we all walked away from cages that had once been my prison. “I know you are not in the habit feeding yourself, but I hope you realise that a dragon _needs_ food.”

    “Yes, Mycroft, don’t be dull. I’ll remember to feed the beast.”

    I mostly ignored the two humans as the bickered. I looked up towards the sky, breathing in deeply. The scent of anger and fear was all but gone, whisked away by the fresh breeze. It was going to rain – the clouds were heavy and grey, and I could almost taste the moisture in the air. I felt myself hum quietly in delight.

    I was _free_. Mostly. More so than I had been, anyway.

    After Mycroft left, I followed my owner along the streets. Dragons walked passed me – some collared, some not. Some offered a greeting, others simply looked past me. I kept my head level with my owner’s shoulder, showing fang to any who stared at me too long. Most looked properly cowed by my display of aggression, but one or two of the larger dragons snarled warningly at me as we passed each other.

    Our first stop was the cleaners. My owner strode in and was served quickly by a nervous little man who smelled like soap. He handed over my chain, and I followed the nervous man through twisting corridors. He led me into a large shower and proceeded to wash my scales clean. I relaxed and held still, almost purring at the sensation. It had been a long time since I had been given such a thorough cleaning. The warm water washed the grime from my scales, making them shine as they should have throughout my life.

    It was another matter entirely when he started cleaning my claws. Well, the cleaning was fine, but the man insisted on filing them down to a frankly embarrassing length and making them as dull as possible. A soft snarl echoed from my throat throughout the whole ordeal, but I didn’t attack. He’d made me lovely and clean again, after all.

    I was returned to my owner by trembling hands. Promptly paying the man, my owner whirled and left. I was left with no choice but to follow. It felt odd – when I walked, my talons no longer clicked against the ground. I tossed my head and deliberately dragged my paws along the pavement.

    “Stop that,” my owner snapped sharply. “I don’t want you ruining anything in the flat. You have no need for your claws.” Perhaps not, but it was insulting to be without them. I grumbled but complied. “You seem unexpectedly sensitive to tone,” he noted. “That will come in handy.”

    We arrived, and my owner unlocked the door with a flourish. “Of course, stairs,” he muttered to himself before whirling to face me. “Shrink,” he commanded.

    We dragons were taught basic commands from a young age. Given our apparent intelligence, there were one word commands for every situation. Once humans realised we had the ability to change our size with our will, they created a command for situations where a dragon might be required to change size. Generally, dragons tended to stay at their maximum size, so the ‘Shrink’ and ‘Revert’ commands were used more than the ‘Grow’ command.

    I felt my body shiver as the magic twisted my form ever smaller. The collar around my throat shrank with me, an ingenious idea by the humans. They’d made it after several cases of dragons growing and strangling themselves on their collar. The humans again thought this an accident, but we dragons knew better. I shrank until I was the size of a dog and then looked up at my owner. He nodded in satisfaction and led the way upstairs.

    “Oh, Sherlock!” An older woman bustled out from the flat marker 221A. She smelled of lavender, and I liked her immediately. I trilled gently at her, moving around my owner – Sherlock – to get a better look at her. “Is this your new pet?”

    I huffed at the word pet, but Sherlock was already speaking. “Indeed, Mrs Hudson.”

    “Does he have a name?”

    Sherlock snorted. “I’ll think of a name for him eventually, I’m sure.”

    Mrs Hudson frowned. “Dear me, Sherlock. Is this your first pet?”

    “Yes. I’ve never had an interest in a pet before,” Sherlock drawled. I could see that.

    “He needs a name,” Mrs Hudson said firmly.

    The truth was, I did have a name. All dragons did. It was the name that pressed itself into our souls the moment the egg cracked, the name that was whispered across the sky at our first sound. Mothers knew the name, and eventually true-siblings did too, if they wanted to share – like Hirador and I had. But names were power, and ever since the war we had hoarded our names. Hirador and my mother were the only two creatures who knew my name.

    “Of course, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock muttered, edging past her to get to the stairs. “Lovely to see you.” And then he dismissed her with a turn of his head and strode up the stairs.

    I entered a flat that would have been lovely had all the surfaces – tables, chairs, benches – not been covered in dusty smelling boxes. On the kitchen table sat a microscope, and the sharp scent of chemicals made me turn away. There was a door that smelled like Sherlock, behind which I guessed lay his room. The couch smelt like him too, as did one of the armchairs, but the rest of the flat only faintly contained his scent. Underlying every other scent was the acrid smell of cigarettes.

    Sherlock unclipped the chain and threw it over the back of the armchair that didn’t smell like him. “This is my flat. Ours now, I suppose. You will stay upstairs – there’s an extra room that isn’t being used. I very rarely sleep and I play the violin.” He paused, and then turned to face me. “I don’t know why I bother. You don’t understand me anyway.”

    He swept towards the stairs and pointed up them. “Yours,” he said very clearly. I peered up the stairs curiously. “Go,” he ordered, and I scampered past him.

    The room was nice. It was larger than my cage had been, although that was perhaps because I was so much smaller. There was a bed that I immediately jumped onto. I rubbed my cheeks against every surface in reach, satisfied when the room began to smell like me. I investigated the drawers – nothing useful – and then turned my attention to the most amazing thing about the room.

    The window.

    It wasn’t much of a view, but I sat on the sill and stared up at the sky. Happy little hums rumbled from my chest as I stared up at the clouds, imagining the feel of the wind beneath my wings. The walk here had done little to subdue my hunger for the sky. I wanted to fly again. I wanted to be free with Hirador and my mother. But something like that was just a fantasy. I made a low sound in my throat. Then the door burst open abruptly, and I was turning defensively. My lips pulled away from my fangs, my wings opened instinctively, and my tail arched over my back threateningly.

    Sherlock only laughed. “That would be perhaps more impressive if you were larger,” he told me, lips twitching in amusement. His face smoothed. “Come,” he ordered, spinning on his heel and almost running back downstairs. I jumped off the sill and raced after him.

    The scent of foreign dragons and humans in the living room had me growling softly. Sherlock ignored me as he bounded towards the grey-haired human and the dark-skinned, dark-haired woman. Curled around the woman’s shoulders was a drab brown dragon, while a dark red one sat at the grey-haired human’s heels.

    “Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “Donovan,” he added, his voice abruptly cooling. “What’s different about this one?”

    “She left a note,” Lestrade said, the sigh evident in his voice. His dragon peered at me with curious yellow eyes. “Since when do you have a dragon?” he demanded, finally noticing me.

    “Since a few hours ago,” Sherlock replied shortly. “A note?”

    Lestrade eyed me and then nodded sharply. “What is he?” he asked curiously, crouching down to my level. Non-threatening. He offered me his hand.

    “You can’t tell by looking?” Sherlock drawled as I stepped forward to sniff the offered fingers. “ _Draconis gemmeus_ , I was told. Never before seen in male dragons.”

    “He’s a sweet little thing, isn’t he?” Lestrade asked, tickling the scales beneath my chin. Donovan and her dragon watched me curiously.

    Sherlock was frowning. I could smell the disapproval. “He isn’t supposed to be,” he grumbled unhappily. “Have you heard of the Ripper Dragon?” he asked sharply.

    The two humans nodded. “Horrible business. Four guards ripped to pieces.” Lestrade continued to stroke my scales. I hummed happily.

    “I heard they killed the beast,” Donovan said. “Apparently the beast didn’t mind killing to get what he wanted.” I noted the way she glared at Sherlock as she said it and wondered about it.

    Sherlock gave her an inscrutable look before turning back to Lestrade. “A note, you said?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, thanks for reading the newest chapter! Unfortunately the next chapter may take some time because I'm still deciding how to write it. Sorry about that, but I promise it won't be abandoned.
> 
> For those of you who are interested, this universe has several classifications of dragons. From most common to least, they are:  
> Red – Draconis rufus  
> Yellow – Draconis flavus  
> Blue – Draconis caerulus  
> Green – Draconis prasinus  
> Brown – Draconis fulvus  
> Copper – Draconis cypreus  
> Silver – Draconis argentum  
> Gold – Draconis aurum  
> Jewelled – Draconis gemmeus
> 
> Apart from 'John', there are no male Jewelled dragons. Female dragons are rarely copper or yellow. I hope I haven't given too much away, but stick around and everything will be explained :D


	3. Chapter 3

    I followed Sherlock as he stalked onto the scene, leaving both Lestrade and Donovan behind. Lestrade’s dragon, affectionately called Mason, was much friendlier than Donovan’s Anderson. After the initial posturing, we were tentatively exploring each other’s scents. I was almost willing to actually speak to him, but Sherlock was quick to order me away.

    The human on the floor – dead for at least a few hours, going by the smell – was quite obviously fond of the colour pink, because she was dressed from head to toe in it. The jewellery she was wearing looked clean and in good condition, if you ignored the thick gold band on her second last finger. Her coat was damp – it must have been raining before she died – and mud splattered the back of her right calf. I cocked my head and leaned forward to sniff her mouth. I drew back immediately, snorting with distaste.

    The scent was familiar – as an egg, I’d been coated in my mother’s poison, an effective defence against egg stealers when she was absent from the nest. It was not a terribly pleasant smell, and the fact that it originated from the woman's mouth made it abundantly clear that someone had given her dragon poison. No doubt with the intent to kill.

    Sherlock was darting around the body, inspecting her fingers and leaning in to sniff her mouth as I had just done. I doubted he would recognise the faint scent for what it was, but it was entirely possible he would realise she’d been poisoned. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, fiddling with it for a moment before putting it back in his pocket.

    “Well?” Lestrade demanded, leaning against the doorframe. Mason sat at his feet, watching Sherlock dance around with something akin to fascination. “What have you got for me?”

    “She’s left-handed.”

    “How do you know that?”

    “Oh please, Detective Inspector. Even my dragon would be able to tell that.” The biting scorn in Sherlock’s voice would have made a lesser man cry, but Lestrade seemed to take it all in stride.

    “I’m sure. If you won’t tell me how, then tell me what else you’ve got.”

    Sherlock tapped his foot pointedly at the letters carved into the wooden floor beside her left hand until Lestrade took a deep breath and nodded. He was probably berating himself for missing something so obvious. I knew I was. “She had an umbrella but she didn’t use it. It’s dry, but her coat is wet. Why does one not use an umbrella in the rain?”

    Sally shrugged, half-hidden behind Lestrade. “She forgot she had it?”

    Sherlock’s eyebrow rose. “Is that really the best you could come up with, Sergeant Donovan?” he asked mockingly, and her cheeks turned red with fury and embarrassment. She opened her mouth to give a no doubt scathing reply.

    “Why is that important, Sherlock?” Lestrade interrupted, sending Sally a very pointed glare. Very slowly, she closed her mouth and glared at Sherlock instead. I sat still, half-hidden in the shadows of the room, and watched the verbal sparring match. I was undeniably fascinated - after all, my interactions with humans for most of my life had been decidedly unpleasant.

    “It means that wherever she was, the wind was too strong for her to use the umbrella. London hasn’t had any rain in the last few hours. Her coat is still damp, severely restricting her travel time to 2-3 hours. Where has it been raining with heavy winds within this travel radius? Cardiff. She’s in her late thirties, probably works in the media, judging by the quality of her clothes and frankly alarming shade of pink.

    “She travelled from Cardiff today, intended to only stay one night, judging by the size of her suitcase. She’s been married for at least ten years – not a happy marriage, look at her wedding ring. Dirty on the outside but clean on the inside, suggesting she removed it quite frequently. A serial adulterer.”

    “How do you know that’s what she removes it for? It could be for work,” Lestrade interjected. I looked at Sherlock expectantly.

    He snorted. “Please, look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands. We know from her suitcase she was intending to stay one night – she may have been meeting a lover, though that’s doubtful because the ring is still on her finger.” Sherlock paused. “Ah,” he said. “The ring was still on her finger because she never made it to the hotel.” He looked sharply at Lestrade. “Where’s her suitcase?”

    “There isn’t one,” Lestrade replied bluntly. “What makes you think there should be?”

    Sherlock crouched, pointing to the splatter of mud I’d noticed earlier. “This. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase with her right hand – you don’t get that splashback in any other way. She never made it to the hotel, so that means that someone took it.” He jumped up, eyes shining with excitement. “Oh, this one’s made a mistake,” he breathed.

    “What –” Lestrade began to ask, but Sherlock was already gone.

    Mason rubbed against Lestrade’s legs like a cat, trying to comfort his human. I watched them silently for a moment, since everyone seemed to have forgotten I was there. By the time they turned around, recalling my existence, I had realised a few things.

    Firstly, Mason was much more affectionate than I had ever seen a dragon be with a human. It hadn’t occurred to me when we’d first been introduced, but Lestrade smelled like Mason. The red dragon had effectively claimed his human in a way that none could ignore. Donovan’s dragon was nowhere near as tactile, even though he was usually wrapped around her neck. She didn't even smell remotely like Anderson, either.

    Secondly, Mason behaved quite unlike any male I’d encountered. He didn’t flare his wings to make himself look bigger, nor did he make any gestures with his tail. Instead, he seemed to rely on his face and body language to convey his meaning. It was a decidedly calmer behaviour that I found myself liking.

    Lastly, but perhaps most importantly, Lestrade cared for Mason as much as Mason cared for him. Their bond was deeper than I had ever heard a bond between human and dragon being. The two of them moved like extensions of a single self, and it made me wonder if there was perhaps hope for dragons and humans to coexist peacefully.

    “Sherlock,” Lestrade groaned as he knelt in front of me. “Sorry about him,” he said, smiling when I nuzzled his fingers. “Once that great big brain of his gets a hold of an idea, he can’t think of anything else. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

    I chirped at him questioningly, and he looked around before leaning even closer. “Listen, you don’t have to worry. Mason’s told me all about you dragons.”

    I half-snarled in alarm, baring my fangs – a betrayal? Already? But Mason was moving forward, soothing coos issuing from his throat.

    _“We can trust him,”_ he said, looking at me hopefully. _“You seem like a more reasonable sort than that damned Anderson, and Sherlock’s your human.”_

    _“What does that have to do with anything?”_ I snarled back, my fangs still bared.

    _“He is not the most stable of humans. Brilliant, yes, but not stable. I – Greg and I agreed we would warn his dragon, should he ever take one. He is unpredictable and extremely intelligent. You will have to be very careful, if you do not wish for him to discover our secret.”_

    I stared at Mason critically. _“I do not intend to reveal myself to him,”_ I replied, and noticed the way Mason’s shoulders slumped slightly. _“You wanted me to.”_

    Mason looked at Lestrade. “Sherlock is a decent bloke, underneath all… _That_. I almost feel like I’m betraying him, keeping this a secret.”

    _“So instead of telling him yourselves, you want me to do it for you?”_ I asked coolly.

    Lestrade shook his head. “No. Well, yes, but we won’t force you. It’s just something we’d appreciate you thinking about.”

    I snorted but closed my jaws with an audible snap. _“I will think about it. Will you take me home now, Lestrade?”_


	4. Chapter 4

    I was hardly surprised to find Sherlock already back at the flat, pacing around a bright pink suitcase. He looked up as the three of us entered.

    “I hope I don’t have to assure you that I’m not the killer,” was his greeting.

    I chirped at him and coiled myself between his legs, almost tripping him up. I saw both Mason and Lestrade fighting smiles as Sherlock stared down accusingly at me.

    “You did that on purpose,” he said. I looked up at him innocently, humming a curious sound. He glared at me a moment longer before turning his attention to Lestrade, who hid his smile at the last second. “Did you find anything on Rachel?” he demanded.

    Mason exchanged a baffled look with his human. “Who’s Rachel?” Lestrade asked.

    “That was your job. What did you think she was trying to write?”

    “Sally thought she meant rache. Apparently it means revenge in German.” Lestrade shrugged.

    Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “I have to admit I’m almost impressed she knows that. But a stupid conclusion remains a stupid conclusion. She was writing ‘Rachel’. The name obviously has some significance – otherwise, why would she bother scratching it into the floor when she was dying?”

    Lestrade was texting, his fingers moving laboriously over the screen. “I’ve put Sally onto it. Should hear back from her soon. That leaves me time to talk to you about your dragon.”

    Sherlock looked thrown by the turn in conversation. Judging from the venom in his voice when he spoke, he wasn't used to being wrong-footed. “What about it?”

    “Sherlock, you can’t just leave him at a crime scene! Have you even named him?”

    Sherlock glared. “What is with everyone and _names_? Simply refer to him as ‘Sherlock’s dragon’. That ought to clear up any confusion.”

    Lestrade sighed in exasperation. “That’s not why he needs a name, Sherlock. He’s a living creature; he needs a name!”

    “Mountains, rivers, oceans. They have names, and they are not living creatures. Your obsession with giving him a name is frankly ridiculous.” He turned to me. “Do you even want a name?” I tilted my head and chirped at him. “He doesn’t even understand what a name _is_. Why does he need one?”

    Lestrade’s phone made a noise, and he pulled it from his pocket. “Rachel was Jennifer’s daughter. She was a stillborn. Dead for fourteen years.”

    “Why would a dying woman carve the name of a stillborn child into the floor when she was dying?” Sherlock questioned aloud, his eyes landing on the opened suitcase. “She’s missing her phone,” he said abruptly.

    “What?”

    “As a serial adulterer, she would have been very careful with where she left her phone. But it’s not here, and I doubt she forgot it in the cab.” He paused, glaring at the pink suitcase. “There’s something I’m missing.”

    I hummed quietly. The conversation had grown confusing and twisted, but I thought I understood where Sherlock was going. By all reasoning, the dead woman would have had to be intelligent. Hiding that many lovers from everyone must have taken quite a bit of planning. If she hadn’t been caught, then it would have taken a bit of successful planning. Accidentally leaving her phone in a cab did not sound like the action of someone with that level of intelligence.

    “Cab?” Lestrade asked, puzzled.

    _“How else would she lose her suitcase?”_ I asked quietly, almost making Lestrade jump in surprise. _“Someone pulling around a bright pink suitcase is sure to gain at least a bit of attention.”_

    “Think about it, Lestrade. The killer forgot he had the suitcase with him, that’s why it wasn’t left at the scene. How does someone _forget_ their victim had a suitcase? By leaving it in the boot. I assumed he would try and toss it, and proceeded to check any skips that were isolated but accessible by car. I found it within an hour.”

    “But a cab?”

    “Think, Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted. “You have a brain – start using it! Who can stalk and approach a stranger on the street without arousing suspicion? Who do we never look at twice?”

    _“Cab drivers,”_ I murmured, this time speaking only to Mason. _“He really is quite brilliant, isn’t he?”_

    _“We told you that already,”_ Mason replied smugly.

    “Cab drivers!” Sherlock exclaimed at Lestrade’s blank look. “The perfect occupation for a serial killer. The woman _knew_ she was dying – that’s why she wrote Rachel. But how is it _connected_?”

    Lestrade looked lost. “You mean you don’t know?”

    _“She left it on purpose,”_ I realised. I saw Mason and Lestrade start to look at me, but both stilled themselves. _“The phone. He already said it. She_ knew _what was happening. She left the phone on purpose. Help him to that, Lestrade, otherwise we’ll be here all night.”_

    “So she left the phone in the cab then?” Lestrade asked tentatively.

    Sherlock froze, spinning on his heel to stare at Lestrade with suddenly bright eyes. “Say that again,” he breathed.

    “She left the phone in the cab?”

    “Oh that is brilliant! She _left_ her phone in the cab. She did it on purpose!” The next second he was typing away on a laptop I assumed was his because the thing wasn’t pink. I almost sighed in relief –I’d had more than enough of that colour.

    “What are you doing?”

    “GPS,” Sherlock snapped, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. “Her phone,” he added impatiently when Lestrade continued to look lost. “It will have GPS. Rachel is a password – I can use it to access her phone and find out where it is.” He finished typing with a flourish, and then proceeded to glared holes through the screen. “That’s not right.”

    “What?” Lestrade demanded, peering over Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s here?” he asked with a frown.

    “No, it isn’t. That’s why it’s not right.”

    I smelled Mrs Hudson climbing up the stairs and went to greet her, nuzzling her legs. She stroked me good naturedly before gently pushing me aside, muttering something about Sherlock’s cab. For a moment, it didn’t compute, but the next minute I was down the stairs, slipping out the front door that had been left ajar.

    A cab, looking perfectly inconspicuous, sat on the curb. The driver was already seated inside, but his scent blanketed the path. I inhaled deeply and bared my teeth – his scent held subtle hints of dragon poison. I glanced back at the flat before making my way to the driver’s door.

    I chirped loudly and scratched gently at the door until it opened, revealing a kindly looking older man.  _The face of evil,_ I thought idly.

    He smiled when he saw me, offering me his hand to sniff. “Hello there, little one,” he said, his voice pleasant. “What can I do for you?” I nuzzled closer, humming happily, and with a little chuckle he lifted me into the cab, placing me carefully on the passenger seat. “You sit right here, little one, and keep your head down. I have someone to pick up, and then I’ll take you back to a shelter.”

    Almost immediately after he’d finished speaking, the back door opened, and Sherlock climbed in. “I didn’t order a taxi,” he said, but he sounded excited. I resisted the urge to growl, curling up into a ball on the seat instead. Intelligence? Check. Self-preservation? Don't make me laugh.

    “Doesn’t mean you don’t need one,” the cabbie replied as he pulled away from the curb.

    “It was you, then.” Sherlock wasn’t asking.

    “No one ever thinks of the cabbie. It’s like I’m invisible – just the back of a head.”

    “Is this a confession?”

    The cabbie grinned. “Yeah. I’d even sit nice and quiet, if you called the cops. But you won’t do that.”

    “Oh? And why wouldn’t I?”

    The cabbie was silent for a moment. “I didn't kill those four people, Mr. Holmes. I spoke to them and they killed themselves. If you get the coppers now I promise you one thing: I will never tell you what I said.”

    Sherlock remained eerily silent.

    “I was warned about you, you know. Even visited your website. Brilliant stuff – I loved it.” He slowed the cab. “Here we are, Mr Holmes. Care to step out?”

    Sherlock was out of the cab before the cabbie had even finished his sentence. I watched the two men wander into a building, and quietly huffed to myself. Uncurling from the seat, I tested the handle but found it locked. A dragon smile crept across my face. Well then. What was the human saying? Desperate times called for drastic measures?

    I reared up on my back legs and punched my fore legs through the glass. My scales protected me as I crawled out through the now broken window. I paused and carefully extended my mind until I found Mason.

    _“I take back all the nice things I said about him,”_ I said without preamble. _“Sherlock is an idiot.”_

    _“Where are you?”_ Mason sounded almost frantic.  _"We turned around and you were both gone."_

    _“Somewhere called ‘Roland Kerr Further Education College’. Sherlock decided to get in a cab with our murderer.”_

     _“We’ll be there soon.”_

    I shook myself and ran into the building, following the sounds of voices. I slowed my pace as I grew closer, making as little noise as possible.

    “And because you’re dying, you decided to kill four people.” Sherlock sounded bored.

    “No, I’ve outlived four people. That’s the most fun you can have with an aneurysm. Tell you what. I like you, so I’ll give you a choice. Take the 50-50 chance, or I can shoot you, here and now.”

    I barely restrained myself from storming in. How much of an idiot did you have to be to get into a cab with someone you _knew_ was a murderer, and then proceed to play a _game_ with them? It didn’t even matter that the gun wasn’t real – it smelled like a lighter. The threat of dragon poison was very real. A low snarl rumbled up my throat, but both men were too busy talking to hear me.

    “The gun.”

    “Are you sure? Don’t want to phone a friend?”

    “I’m sure.” There came a click as the ‘gun’ was fired. “I know a real gun when I see it,” Sherlock sneered.

    _But you don’t know an idiot idea when it walks up to your front door saying ‘Cab for Sherlock Holmes’_ , I thought venomously, slipping into the room. Neither human could see me, so I crept a little closer.

    “I bet you get bored, don't you?” the cabbie was saying, fingers playing with a glass phial. “I know you do. Man like you. So clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it. Still the addict. But this, this is what you're really addicted to. You do anything—anything at all to stop being bored. You're not bored now are you? Isn’t it good —”

    Both men opened the lids to their respective phials, and the scent of dragon poison hit me like a brick. The smell was much, much stronger than I had anticipated, and I realised very quickly what that meant – both pills were poisoned. The cabbie was intending to go down, but he planned on taking Sherlock with him.

    I leapt forward with a snarl, knocking the cabbie flat on his back. The phial flew from his hand, shattering a few meters away. A flick of my tail ensured Sherlock’s met a similar fate. My jaws closed around the cabbie’s throat, but I didn’t bite down.

    Sherlock entered my vision, heated eyes on the pinned cabbie. “The one who warned you about me – I want his name.”

    “No,” the cabbie gasped, eyes flicking between the two of us. I felt strangely apologetic - underneath all his anger, the cabbie was simply a scared old man. An old man who was scared to die without being remembered. It wasn't a feeling I was particularly familiar with, since when I died, every other dragon would feel it. But the idea sent shivers down my spine.

    “My dragon can kill you quickly, or he can kill you slowly. Tell me the name, and I promise it will be quick. Don’t tell me, and I’ll let the police have you.”

    The cabbie licked his lips, a war being fought inside his head. I could tell the moment he made his decision, because he relaxed onto the floor. “Moiarty,” he whispered. “His name is Moriarty.”

    Sherlock nodded once, turning his eyes to me. “Kill,” he ordered coldly. I hummed in affirmation, watching Sherlock walk away before meeting the cabbie's eyes with my own.

    _“I’m sorry,”_ I whispered to him, watching his eyes widen in surprise right before my jaws clamped down on his throat, my teeth tearing apart his skin and piercing the delicate veins. My fangs encountered bone, and I bit even harder, until the cabbie’s head was separated cleanly from his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So someone will have to tell me if I've made any errors, or if this is too much, too little etc. I spent all day on this chapter and the previous one, and I am now exhausted.
> 
> Enjoy!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello I'm not dead :)

    It came as no surprise to me that Sherlock didn’t thank me for saving his life. He didn’t even look at me as he spoke to Lestrade, so I took a seat beside Mason. He wrinkled his nose and sneezed pointedly.

    _“You still smell like death,”_ he muttered, turning his face away.

    I snorted, licking a spot of blood from my scales. _“And I will for some time. Death is not a smell easily washed away.”_

    Mason hummed in agreement. _“The stench clings to my talons for_ days _if I get as much as the tip in blood. Sometimes Greg lets me autopsy the bodies, and then I smell for_ weeks _.”_

    “Well, it is high time I returned home,” Sherlock said, suddenly appearing at my side. He peered at me intently for a few seconds. “Goodbye, Detective Inspector.”

    “Hold up, we need your statement!” Lestrade looked torn between being amused and being annoyed. I cocked my head and regarded the two with interest, trying to figure out what Lestrade found so amusing.

    Sherlock indicated the hideous orange blanket around his shoulders. I stared at it – what on _Earth_? “I am in shock,” he snapped. “That _is_ why they keep giving me this blanket, correct?”

    Lestrade grinned. “Mostly, it’s just because the boys want a picture.” As if to support his claims, the flash of a camera went off in the background, leaving unpleasant blind spots in my eyes.

    Sherlock almost snarled. “I’ve already told you what happened. There is no need for me to tell you anything else. I’ve left nothing out.”

    “So a dragon you’ve never seen before just _happened_ to appear on the scene and chew off the cabbie’s head?” Lestrade asked with a raised eyebrow.

    “That is correct,” Sherlock replied smoothly. He spoke so confidently that _I_ almost believed him, and I could see Lestrade backing down. He _knew_ I was responsible, but Mason had confided in me that he was willing to look the other way because I’d saved Sherlock.

    _“Humans are strange creatures,”_ Mason muttered, his voice almost fond. I looked at him sharply, and he gave me a dragon’s smile. _“Take care of Sherlock. He has had many troubles, and few friends.”_

_“We will never be friends,”_ I replied firmly. _“But I will watch over him nonetheless.”_

    “Come,” Sherlock snapped, striding away from the scene. The garish orange blanket fell from his shoulders as I scampered after him, growing just large enough to ensure I wouldn’t be left behind. He hailed a cab and slid inside, holding the door open for me.

    “Where to?” the cabby asked once we were both seated.

    “221B Baker Street,” Sherlock said, already tapping away at his phone. I curled into the seat and sighed quietly.

    Today had been an eventful day. I doubted that my time would always be spent so, but I rather expected to save the unusual human from himself again. I peered at him, my eyes slitted almost closed, and sighed again. A day. I had barely known him a day, and I was already contemplating saving his life again. What would happen, I wondered, if he proved himself unworthy of my assistance?

    Bonds were special things, to be revered and treated with the upmost care. Some bonds were tangible things, like the bonds between mates. Others, like the bond between Mason and his human, were little more than an idea. It didn’t make the bond any less real.

    Between Sherlock and I, there was the potential for a strong bond. I could feel, smell it in the air between us. But like most things, a bond was the product of two. A bond could not be created by myself alone, and I knew Sherlock had little intention of starting one with me. After all, who bothers to put energy into something they’ll just throw away? Certainly not dragons.

    The cab pulled over, and Sherlock was out and closing the door before I’d even moved. I released an outraged squawk when it became clear Sherlock had completely forgotten about me. No, a bond was unlikely, despite the potential. I scratched at the door – gently – until the cabbie moved to open the door for me. I nuzzled against his offered hand in silent thanks before bounding towards the closing door of 221B.

    The door closed with a staggering finality, and I barely pulled myself up before running into it face first. I turned back towards the cabbie, but he was already driving off. I snarled under my breath, glaring up at the window that I could see was flooded with light. What an ungrateful child.

    I had a few options, I realised as I calmed down. The upstairs window was opened – I was a dragon, for goodness sake! I could fly. I could break down the door – if I wanted to be needlessly dramatic. Or, I could gain entrance by making Mrs Hudson aware of my presence.

    Option 3, I decided. I climbed onto the windowsill and began to chirp, gently head-butting the window. Within seconds Mrs Hudson was there, letting me into what I presumed was 221A. She ushered me in, muttering angrily about Sherlock. I could hear him pacing upstairs, and the creaking of wood.

    “That boy!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed as she fixed up a plate of delicious smelling food. “I’m sorry, dear, but he’s rather forgetful when he has a case.”

    I wanted to tell her he _didn’t_ have a case, but I was too busy devouring the food she’d placed in front of me. It was some kind of fish, with a wonderful herb crust. I hummed happily and found myself wishing I belonged to Mrs Hudson instead of Sherlock.

    “Had enough? I’ll let you up in just a moment,” Mrs Hudson said kindly, stroking my scales before bustling out the kitchen.

    Minutes later I was back in 221B, watching Sherlock pace back and forth, his forehead wrinkled into a frown. From what I had observed earlier, I knew he had a sharper mind than most humans. I knew his mind leapt from ideas so quickly that most people had trouble keeping up – even dragons would have trouble. But humans would always be on a different wavelength to dragons, so I hadn’t the faintest idea what he was worrying about.

    He paused by the couch – he still hadn’t noticed me – and picked up an odd wooden… thing. It didn’t appear to be a weapon, and I had no references as to what it was used for. My confusion was quickly replaced by pleasure when Sherlock picked up a wooden stick and drew it across the narrow part of what I realised now was an instrument.

    It was beautiful. There were no adequate words capable of describing my pleasure at the music that Sherlock coaxed from the wooden instrument. I wanted to listen to him all night – I wanted to lend my voice to the music and make it magical. But male dragons couldn’t sing, so I hummed instead, softly so as not to disturb the human.

    It took Sherlock some time to realise I was there. When he did, the music stopped abruptly. “I didn’t let you in,” he said, peering at me suspiciously. “How did you get in?” I chirped innocently. “Oh yes. Don’t pretend to be innocent. I bought you for research purposes. There was little need for you to save me. Not that you saved me. I had everything under control, after all.”

    I wished I could laugh at him. I wished I could inform him exactly how much trouble he’d been in. Since I couldn’t, I wandered over to him and nudged the stick hanging by his leg. I stepped back and looked at him expectantly.

    His brow furrowed. “I don’t play for amusement,” he snapped. “It helps me think.” I hummed softly but didn’t move. We stared at each other as the fire in the fireplace crackled merrily.

    As Sherlock teased the first notes from the instrument, I couldn’t help but consider him again. The pale, delicate skin; the dark curls; those intense eyes. Defenceless, weak, yet sheer numbers had assured their victory and threatened to keep us slaves. I thought a little more, and the last thing I decided was that I was glad Sherlock had picked me up.

    After all, there was such a high chance I’d get to kill again. I settled onto the floor, licking my claws and humming softly. I couldn’t pass that up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character development is developing. Let me know in the comments what you think! Sorry I've abandoned you all for so long D:


	6. Chapter 6

    The name _Moriarty_ ate at Sherlock. He spent much of his time searching, seeking for a face to go with that name. I watched him struggle, watched his frustrations pile up until he was snapping at everyone, at anything. His tongue became barbed, poisonous and deadly. I watched as he tore into suspects and innocents alike, unable to attack the one cause of his fury.

    The name _Moriarty_ bothered me. It was not just because of the wild creature Sherlock was fast becoming, although that was cause enough for concern. The name tasted wrong on my tongue, like ash and dead, rotting things. My dreams echoed with half-forgotten tales that had been told before the war, before our taming.

    I was also, however, constantly amazed by Sherlock and his brilliant mind. I grew to hate Sally and Anderson, whose words dripped with a combination of disgust and fear whenever they mentioned Sherlock. They were always there during cases, the word _freak_ hanging around them like a bad smell. I always made sure to stand beside Sherlock, made sure Anderson was aware of my displeasure with a flash of teeth and an effort at colour change.

    We chased black market masters, jade pins and women who hid in shadows. We caught accidental killers, retrieved information pertaining to a ‘top-secret’ defence projects. We chased Mycroft from the flat, each with our own reasons for wanting him gone. I took care of the cameras and devices he left after each visit, listened to Sherlock play his instrument, and did my best to keep him alive.

    Mason and Lestrade bore our growing viciousness with remarkable calm. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to speak the name to Mason, and so the first time either of them heard it was when Sherlock was throwing one of his childish tantrums. Mason’s reaction was more or less what I had expected; he flinched back, a low snarl erupting from his mouth before he could stop it. Sherlock had been too tied up in his tantrum to notice, but Lestrade looked at his dragon with no small amount of worry.

    _“The name is a curse,”_ Mason whispered. _“How can they not feel it?”_

    I snorted. _“If you ever needed an example of how_ different _they are from us, this is it.”_

    _“But… The_ taste _. I don’t understand.”_

    _“You seem oddly troubled by this,”_ I noted, dodging a flying object with ease. _“What is wrong?”_

    Mason nodded at the humans who were currently shouting at each other. Lestrade had obviously reached the end of his patience. _“I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing,”_ he admitted. _“Gregory is an exemplary human,”_ he rushed to add, _“but they are so different from us. They do not feel like we do. They do not think or act like us. We are completely different.”_

    _“That is true,”_ I agreed. _“But your bond is nothing to be ashamed of. It is strong. Like your name, it was forged for you.”_

    Mason grew quiet. _“I had been meaning to ask,”_ he began slowly, with a delicacy I knew no wild male dragon was capable of, _“but you’re one of those children, aren’t you?”_

    I cocked my head. _“One of those?”_ I echoed. _“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”_

    _“The children whose name does not truly fit,”_ he said, making himself smaller. _“I… My mother cast her magic upon me when I was an egg.”_

    I was still, frozen. Realistically, I suppose I should have realised there would be more like me. More mothers like mine who had been desperate to save their children. But I’d felt so alone, so isolated, that the thought had never crossed my mind. And I had never asked another dragon, for fear of their response.

    _“I didn’t mean to presume,”_ Mason added hastily. _“If you are not, please ignore me.”_

    I eyed him – her – with narrowed eyes. _“You never seemed very masculine to me,”_ I offered eventually, and her whole body relaxed. _“Does your human know?”_

    Mason nodded. _“To him, I am Molly. It is… Wonderful to meet another like me.”_

    _“But you knew there were more of us.”_

    _“I hoped,”_ Molly said softly. _“I was… Very confused when I hatched. The name bestowed upon me… It was wrong, but right. Like a too-tight skin.”_

    _“Yes,”_ I agreed absently. _“I won’t share your secret, as I know you will not share mine.”_ A promise and a warning, rolled into one. Molly tilted her head in acknowledgement.

    I supposed, to a human, this would be a shocking thing. But Molly and I were not human, and the acceptance of something that would have seemed impossible to a human was easy for us. We felt no need to speak about it, because we both understood. I could tell Molly had no brood-mate with which to share her burden, just as she could likely tell I did. We sensed more about each other than I could give words to.

    “This is exactly what I’m talking about, Sherlock!” Lestrade shouted. “You can’t just do this every time you get frustrated!”

    “I will do as I wish, Lestrade, and I will thank you for removing yourself from my home.” Sherlock’s voice was cool, constrained fury making the sounds sharp. “Leave, Lestrade. _Now_.”

    “Sherlock,” Lestrade began, but Sherlock swept up the wooden instrument – a _violin_ , Molly informed me privately – and started to play.

    But he didn’t play like he had that first night, like he did when he successfully solved a case and was still riding on that high. Oh no. The sounds he wrenched from the instrument were bitter, twisted things, worse than when he was merely bored. These were the sounds of someone who was furious with the world. Molly and I both flinched away, synchronised snarls ripped from our throats at the hideous noise.

    Lestrade and Molly fled quickly, but I was left hunkered down in the furthest corner of my room, trying to hide from the noise. After a few hours it calmed, gentled. After a few more, it stopped altogether. But the notes still rang in my ears, each a cry for something, _something_ I couldn’t name. I was still huddled in the corner as the sun set, and it was well into the night before I decided I should move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this today, hope you enjoy! We're getting to the nitty gritty stuff soon, promise.
> 
> Also, Happy Easter! Enjoy the chocolate feast (I know I am :D)


	7. Chapter 7

    Sherlock was curled on the couch when I emerged. His breathing was soft, even, and I realised he’d fallen asleep. The violin was discarded on Sherlock’s chair, a silent watcher of his dreams. I crept further into the room, looking around.

    Judging by the papers that surrounded him and the laptop on the floor beside him, he’d been busy while I hid. The name, _Moriarty_ , was written so many times I was starting to grow a little concerned about Sherlock’s mental state. The mess of papers on the wall, with red string dancing over them, mocked me as I knew they mocked him. Neither of us could make heads or tails of the name.

    I leapt up lightly onto the coffee table and regarded my human. Curled up with his long limbs tangled together, his face was without its usual haughty expression, lacking the trademark sneer that usually dominated it. In sleep, he looked vulnerable, younger than he was. He muttered something to himself – something that sounded suspiciously like _Moriarty_ – and a small shiver ran down his spine. I spotted an old blanket and dragged it over to him, carefully manoeuvring myself so that I didn’t wake him.

    He rolled over before the blanket was over him completely, almost pulling me from my perch. I dug my claws – slowly, slowly sharpening to an acceptable point – into the couch and finished covering him with the blanket. Satisfied, I returned to the floor and gently batted his laptop away from the couch. It was my turn to use it now. Nuzzling it open with my snout, I carefully pressed the power button with one claw, typing in the password I’d seen Sherlock type.

    The laptop unlocked, and I chirped quietly to myself, proud but aware of the steady breathing behind me. The touchpad gave me so much difficulty I snarled - again, _quietly_ - and went searching for a mouse. It took me a good ten minutes to find one, and then another five to get the mouse into the port. By that time, the laptop had locked itself.

    I’d managed to get to the internet when Sherlock’s careful voice came from behind me.

    “What are you doing?”

    I jerked around, surprised. I’d thought he was still asleep - there had been no change in his breathing pattern. His eyes were fixed on me, sharp and bright and disturbingly awake. He must have woken up before I’d managed to get the mouse connected. I sat back on my haunches, chirping innocently. I could tell it wouldn't work this time.

    What on earth was I supposed to do now? Yes, Molly had revealed herself to Lestrade, but I was not Molly, and Sherlock was not Lestrade. I’d already said the two of us would not become friends. I’d already sworn I wouldn’t tell him. What could I do? How did I know I could trust him?

    He sat up, the blanket falling from his shoulders. Sherlock glanced at it before returning that unnerving stare to me. “How did you manage to unlock it?” He got to his feet, towering over me.

    I growled, not appreciating the intimidation tactic, and let myself grow until we were at eye level. Sherlock didn’t back down. His eyes flickered from me to the laptop and then back again.

    “Shrink,” he commanded. I made my decision very quickly.

    _“No,”_ I snapped, baring my fangs. I was  _tired_ of playing weak,  _tired_ of fooling Sherlock again and again. It was too easy. It ate at me. It  _bored_ me.

    Most humans would have screamed or fainted. As it was, his already pale face went white, and he took a step back. We stared at each other silently, measuring. I felt a small coil of approval when Sherlock refused to even blink.

    “The blanket,” he said abruptly, watching me carefully. Testing, assessing. “Was that you?”

    _“Yes,”_ I replied simply. _“You were cold.”_

    He beamed, the expression overtaking his usual haughtiness. “This is brilliant.” He clapped his hands together. “Are you the only one? No, don’t answer that, it’s disappointingly obvious. Oh! This is fantastic.”

    I snorted. _“Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. Who didn’t even realise he was treating a sentient creature like an animal.”_  Yet I found I didn't really mind. I was rather of the opinion that my acting had been so good that he hadn't even considered dragons capable of possessing any intelligence. It was a point in my favour, a red cross in his.

    He waved a hand. “Humans are animals,” he pointed. “And I’m told my manners are severely lacking.”

    _“They are. If there were any present at all, you would be thanking me.”_

    Sherlock blinked at that. “For what?” he asked, baffled.

    _“I saved your life,”_ I pointed out. _“More than once, I might add.”_

    “Ah, yes. Of course. Thank you, dragon, for saving my life.” He rubbed his hands together, and then suddenly looked very put out. “My brother will have a field day with this.”

    I smiled slowly, baring my teeth in amusement. _“No, he won’t.”_

    He looked at me, curious. He suddenly stood and started to walk around the flat, poking his fingers into crevices and between books. He returned to the couch fairly quickly. “You got rid of the cameras,” he said finally.

    _“Of course. If you lack manners, your brother lacks the understanding of_ privacy _. You don’t honestly think I’m stupid enough to do something with your laptop while your brother watches?”_

    “Well, no, but I just don’t see _how_.”

    _“And I’m not going to tell you, Sherlock Holmes,”_ I told him smugly.

    “You don’t seem worried that I know,” he observed. “You didn’t like it when I told Lestrade you were the Ripper Dragon, but you don’t seem to care that I know your species is intelligent.”

    _“I didn’t like it because it was rude and you only did it because I liked him,”_ I snapped, remembering the incident. Remembering the way both Molly and Lestrade had turned to me, horrified. I hadn't felt like explaining myself to them at the time, and although Lestrade was warier of me for a few days afterwards, Molly remembered herself quickly. Dragons stuck together, especially in dark times.  _“This is different. It was bound to come out sometime, and I’ll admit I’m glad you know, as opposed to your brother.”_

    Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft. He’d be ridiculous about it. He’d be talking about dragon troops.”

    _“We are already your troops,”_ I said bitterly. I remembered the fury I’d felt when I’d found out. When my true-brother had returned from the warzone, wounded, _beaten_. When they’d tried to separate us after we’d only just found each other. The humans had paid dearly for their mistakes that day.

    I had made sure of it.

    Sherlock waved his hands, oblivious to the change in my mood. “Just dragon troops,” he said impatiently. “They wouldn’t need handlers anymore.”

    I eyed him, calming myself with an effort. _“You are not your brother. You’ll tell no one, because you like the idea of knowing something no one else does. You won’t tell your brother because it’s your way of one-upping him.”_

    Sherlock gave a short, sharp bark of delighted laughter. “You are brilliant,” he breathed, his hands cupping my cheeks. It was the most he had touched me since he had bought me. He cocked his head. “You never transform when I ask. I assumed it was because the command had never been taught to you.”

    _“You assumed incorrectly.”_

    “Because I didn’t have all the data. Now I can ask. Why don’t you transform into your human form?”

    _“Just because you ask doesn’t mean I will answer.”_

    He pouted, pulling away. I felt oddly bereft of his touch. “Why not?”

    _“You don’t need to know.”_

    We had another staring contest before Sherlock huffed and turned away, throwing himself back onto the couch. “But I want to know,” he grumbled.

    _“I know.”_ I shrank and leapt up onto the couch, curling against his chest. _“But haven’t you learned enough secrets for one day, Sherlock Holmes?”_

    “No,” he grumbled, but his long fingers started caressing the scales behind my ears. I hummed, content, and together we drifted back to sleep.

    Tomorrow, we could talk about more. Tomorrow, we could talk about  _Moriarty_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was basically the first bit I ever wrote for this story, hence why I have it up so quickly. I'll try to be more consistent with updates, but I can't make any promises sorry :(
> 
> Enjoy!


	8. Chapter 8

    Over the next few days, we grew to know more about each other. Sherlock was positively gleeful with each new fact he managed to glean from my careful words, and I hoped it would be enough to make him forget about _Moriarty_. We sat up together during the evenings, because I did not need as much sleep as a human and Sherlock refused to sleep like one.

    I learned how to make tea for him and subtly get him to eat food when he was busy. I learned the names of the songs he played, and sometimes I actively sought out accompanying parts. When I was satisfied with myself, I would request the song be played. The first time I did so, Sherlock almost refused.

    “Why must I play what you desire?” he’d asked grumpily, picking up his instrument and reminding me of a surly child.

    _“You will not be disappointed,”_ I had replied, and indeed he had not been. The moment I began to sing, his own playing had picked up a notch, reaching something he had never quite seemed to reach before.

    It was breathtaking.

    The peace, however, could not last for long. On the day it broke, Sherlock and I sat on the couch, each comfortably amused with our own devices. Sherlock was fiddling with his phone – probably demanding an update from Lestrade about a small case we’d agreed to work on. I was playing with my scales, willing them one colour before letting that fade and having another replace it.

    “I’ll call you John, then,” Sherlock sighed abruptly, his fingers flying across the screen. “Easy enough for you to remember.” I snorted, abandoning my scales, and he glanced up at me. “Do you have a problem with the name?” he asked curiously.

    _“Yes. It is a male name.”_

    Sherlock looked at me blankly. “ _You_ are a male,” he pointed out, returning his attention to his phone. Uninterested in my reasons. Foolish human.

    I smiled my dragon smile at him, flashing deadly fangs that he did not see. _“My body is, correct.”_

    He froze. He turned to me slowly, sliding the phone into his pocket. He sat up, peering at me with narrowed silver-grey eyes. “Explain,” he ordered tersely.

    _“I don’t have to,”_ I said in reply. _“You’ve worked it out, or you at least have a fairly good idea of what I mean. Don’t you, Sherlock Holmes?”_

    “You mean to tell me,” he started, his eyebrows harsh lines over angry eyes, “that you are a _female dragon_?”

    I chirped once in response. _“I am.”_

    Sherlock remained still for a second before standing and whirling away. I could hear him spitting curses, but didn’t bother to pay any attention to him until a few key sentences caught my attention.

    “A female specimen. Why would I pick a weak specimen? I wanted to study a _fighter_ , not a damned _breeder_.”

    My tail moved, curling around his thin waist like a snake. I dragged him close, snarling dangerously in my throat when he began to protest. _“Listen, Sherlock Holmes,”_ I growled. _"_ _I’ve put up with you for far longer than_ any _sane creature would be able to. I put up with the disgusting scent that comes from the fridge – the place where you also happen to store my food. I put up with your ridiculous habits, your imperious and frankly rude commands. But heed me when I say that you are treading on thin ice, human.”_

    “Release me,” he snapped, but I tightened my tail instead. Deliberately, I raised a claw and placed the tip against his chest. He stopped talking very quickly.

    _“You’ve read up on us extensively. There are some things we can hide, like our intelligence, but we hadn’t the means or the time to physically change anything about ourselves. What do your ‘experts’ say about our physiology, Sherlock Holmes?”_ I prodded him with my claw, indicating he should answer.

    “Male and female dragons show very similar morphological structures,” he said, his voice smooth and collected, betraying nothing of the fear I could smell on him. “Between species, there are several distinct differences – however, both sexes within the species are generally near-identical.” He paused, staring at me. I tilted my head.

    _“Continue.”_

    “The exceptions are only present in mature-age females. Currently, there are very few of these specimens available for study. There were several papers written early on in the war that outlined these exceptions. Without fail, mature-age females were almost always immediately misidentified as ‘alpha’ males.”

    _“Why?”_ I snarled softly.

    “Other dragons showed an aversion to irritating the mature-age females. In addition, the females were recorded being highly territorial and exceedingly vicious. They appeared to gain venomous ducts when they reached maturity.”

    I smiled again. _“Females always get the best territory,”_ I informed him. _“We are not like the males, who prance and dance for attention. The only reason females are_ breeders, _"_ I hissed the work with distaste, _"_ _is because you humans killed most of the unborn dragonlings.”_

    “The biology of your eggs is ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped back defensively.

    _“That is neither here nor there._ _Putting it aside, you will apologise to me.”_

    “ _Why_?” The human looked horrified.

    _“Are you blind, Sherlock Holmes? You have insulted me. Dragons have never taken kindly to insults – surely you know that. The only reason you are not in bloody pieces on the floor is because I am not an anger-happy male.”_ And because of the bond, I added silently. Surely even the human could feel the  _thing_ growing between us, raised on trust and an eagerness to understand.

    “Anger-happy…” Sherlock repeated sarcastically.

    _“Answer me this,”_ I said, ignoring his sarcasm. _“Have you forgotten who I am? What I did?”_

    “No,” Sherlock said immediately. “I haven’t forgotten.”

    _“Then please explain to me how I am weak. I have never known you to ignore the evidence before you – why start now?”_

    He frowned at me. “You never told me.”

    _“You didn’t need to know,”_ I countered. _“It was not necessary for gender to become an issue between us. But would I be correct in saying you’ve realised why I don’t transform?”_

    His eyes narrowed. “Is your human form female?”

    I uncurled my tail, letting him stumble back. _“I don’t know,”_ I replied simply. _“I’ve never transformed, just in case.”_

    Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Is this some form of magic?” I nodded. “Your mother?” Another nod. “But you knew you were female?”

    _“Sherlock Holmes,”_ I said gently, _“I agreed to keep our intelligence a secret when I was still an egg. The dragonlings that died did so as well. The decision wasn’t made by the elders and passed on to the children – we were all equal in the decision.”_

    He sat down. Heavily. I watched him curiosly, unsure what had caused such a reaction. “Dragons are aware in the egg,” he muttered. Ah. Sherlock had thought us dumb, deaf and blind to the world in our eggs. “The ones that died in the egg… Did they know?”

    I knew immediately what he was referring to.  _“No. We didn’t realise the humans would force the hatchings. Those that survived were lucky to do so.”_

    “It has something to do with your names, doesn’t it?” I blinked at him. He smirked. “Please. As if I would believe you. Sentient creatures with no identity?” Sherlock snorted. “How do names tie in with the hatching?”

    " _You would have made a good dragon, Sherlock Holmes.”_ I felt better, admitting it aloud. Despite the fact that he had no wings, no tail, no  _sense_ , Sherlock's mind would have made him a formidable member of my species. He would have been able to mate with the best of us, should he so desire.

    From what I knew of him, I doubted that he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness it's been so long! Sorry about that, enjoy the newest chapter!
> 
> Most questions have been answered in the comments, but if you have one I haven't yet answered, ask and I will reply ASAP.


	9. Chapter 9

    My admission seemed to surprise him, but he waved it away. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said impatiently.

    I blinked at him, hesitant to explain. _“Our names are not like yours,”_ I started slowly. _“Your parents bestow upon you names of sentimentality, or names that mean something to them, or even reflect what they hope you will become. Our names come from the universe. Our time spent in the egg is time the universe spends_ looking _at us, searching for our names amongst the songs.”_ I paused, surprised Sherlock hadn’t interrupted with questions. A quick look showed him staring at me avidly, hands beneath his chin.

    _“When you forced the hatchings, you forced the naming. A dragon with no name will die. A dragon with the wrong name will live, but it is a twisted creature.”_ I shuddered, the name _Moriarty_ whispering across my skin. _“I was lucky. I don’t think you can appreciate how lucky. My name was bestowed on time, and when it rang across the stars it settled and suited me._

_“The only creatures who know my name are my mother and my true-brother. If I had taken a mate, he would have known instinctively, as I would have known his. I will not tell another my name.”_

    “Why not?” Sherlock asked softly.

    I huffed a laugh. _“Names are power, Sherlock Holmes. The names we keep hidden protect us, because without them, none can truly control us.”_  I waited patiently for more questions, and I was not disappointed.

    “What is a true-brother?”

    _“A brood-mate. Dragons can have multiple clutches at a time, but only those from your clutch are your true-siblings. Others are just siblings.”_

    “The other dragon at the facility was your true-brother. You know his name.” He tapped his chin. “Does he know you are actually female?” I nodded. “What about the others?”

    _“No. That would have been disastrous. All those males, and most of them will never get to mate. The number of fertile females has decreased dramatically. While I do not possess a female form, it is possible the males would band together to try and undo the magic my mother bestowed upon me.”_

    Sherlock cocked his head. “How do you know that the number of fertile females have been declining?”

    _“We feel them die,”_ I said sadly. _“That’s how we knew you were forcing the eggs to hatch. We felt the unnamed dragonlings die.”_

    “I… I am sorry.” The human was strangely hesitant, his tone questioning but sincere. “That must be – difficult.”

    _“How many eggs did you open, Sherlock Holmes? I do not blame you for the deaths. We dragons are made to withstand every loss. Well. Almost every loss.”_ Sherlock looked at me questioningly, and I sighed heavily. _“Our mate. We die with our mate.”_

    He frowned. “But female dragons mate with multiple males. You don’t mate for life.”

    I jumped onto the couch, curling around Sherlock’s back. _“Mates are for life,”_ I corrected softly. _“Our names belong together. But we rarely find our mate. That’s why females have so many different partners. Usually, they’re searching for their mate.”_

    “How do you know, then?”

    I hummed. _“The tales say that you will only know after mating. The music of the stars will whisper in your ears, and your hearts will both burst and break. It has been a long time since a mate-pair lived. Some think the tales only that – stories. But the tales had to come from somewhere, and I’m inclined to believe them.”_

    “Why?”

    _“It is better than the alternative. No,”_ I said sharply when I felt him inhale. _“I won’t tell you. You haven’t apologised to me.”_

    “If I apologise will you tell me?”

    _“No. I don’t like the alternative. It is feral and clouded and simply wrong. You_ owe _me an apology.”_

    There was a heavy pause, and then Sherlock sighed. “I’m sorry, John,” he whispered. I was amused at his use of my new name.

    _“As you should be.”_

    “Will you transform? I’d like to see if the magic affected your human form as well.”

    I looked up, and he was watching me hopefully. I growled low in my throat. _“Don’t use that look on me, Sherlock Holmes.”_

    “What look?” he asked innocently, widening his eyes just so.

    _“Fine,”_ I snapped a moment later. I jumped off the couch, snarling softly. _“I will transform in the bathroom. You will wait here.”_

    “Clothes?”

    _“Do you care if I come out naked in either gender?”_

    “Not particularly.”

    _“Good.”_ I marched over to the bathroom and knocked the door closed with my tail. _“Stay outside,”_ I warned before closing my eyes and concentrating.

    I may have never transformed, but I knew how. It was as instinctive as making myself larger or smaller, and required the same sort of concentration. I felt the magic shudder beneath my skin. My bones shifted, creaking and grinding against one another, but I felt no pain. This, I knew, was because the shift was a gift. A memory, as it were.

    I managed to stay upright throughout the transformation, but once fully transformed I collapsed. Bewildered, I stared at my two legs and wiggled my toes. It hadn’t quite sunk in that humans only walked around on two legs. They had no tail for balance, no wings with which to fly. They had their vehicles, yes, but otherwise they walked. I was abruptly very impressed with how much they had managed to accomplish.

    With that in mind, I pulled myself upright, holding on tightly to the basin until I was sure I could stay on my feet. I took a tentative step forward, and then another. If they could do it, then so could I. My toes gripped desperately at the smooth tiles, and I kept my arms spread for balance. I eventually made it to the door through sheer stubborness and luck, and pulled it open.

    Sherlock leapt to his feet and stared at me. “You took your time,” he muttered, disgruntled. He strode over, peering at me with narrowed eyes. I clutched the door like a life line. How did they  _do_ this?

    “Sherlock,” I said aloud, my lips and tongue twisting into shapes as my throat vibrated. I blinked. “Sherlock,” I repeated slowly, tasting the name. There was something there, just out of reach…

    “What do you want, John?” Sherlock snapped, distracting me. “Come over here, into the light. I think you still have scales on your back, but I can’t really tell.” He walked away, muttering to himself.

    “Sherlock,” I said helplessly. He ignored me. “Sherlock!” I snapped, listening as annoyance coloured my voice. Humans conveyed their emotions so subtly, except for Sherlock. He usually came right out and said if he was angry or annoyed (or _BORED_ ), but most used expression and vocal cues to only _hint_ at what they were feeling. Mycroft was particularly annoying about it - it was part of the reason I disliked him so much.

    He spun around. “I said to come here, John. Why aren’t you moving?” His quick eyes scanned me, no doubt noticing my death grip on the door and the way my legs trembled. “Of course, stupid of me. You’ll need to let go of the door if you want to move, John.” He moved a little closer and held out his hand. “Take my hand.”

    I blinked at him. And then let go of the door, swaying unsteadily on my feet. I wished I had my tail. I took a fortifying breath and stepped forward, reaching for his hand at the same time. Our fingers touched, and I had a moment to realise how much smaller my hands were before the peaceful moment shattered.

    Agony ripped through me. My lungs tore through my skin, air a thing of memory. My bones twisted, grinding against each other. My heart stopped beating for one, two, three seconds before it became a hammer, seeking escape from my chest. Every instinct was screaming at me to turn back, to leave my human form and take back my correct form.

    I must have blacked out for a moment, because when I came to, Sherlock had me cupped in his hands. I’d shrunk as small as I could go and curled myself into a defensive ball, wings covering my body and tail coiled around my legs. Hesitantly, I uncurled myself from my defensive position to look up at Sherlock.

    “John? John, are you alright?” he asked, and he sounded almost frantic.

    I tilted my head at him, trembling with remembered pain. _“I do not know what happened,”_ I whispered, pressing my tiny head against his chin. _“Human forms shouldn’t hurt like that. I… I don’t think I want to do that again.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have another chapter because it was done. Do we have anyone with theories? Comment and tell me what you think is going to happen!
> 
> *I will neither confirm nor deny what is going to happen, but I appreciate your comments anyway :D

**Author's Note:**

> Confused by my tags? Welcome to the club.
> 
> I'm joking, all will be explained in due time.


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